Monsters
by Contrarian
Summary: [One shot] The events immediately following Nathaniel’s first encounter with demons at six years old. Dark, possibly disturbing, hence the rating.


Yes, I was in a mood when I wrote this. No, I don't own the Bartimaeus Trilogy. Comments, especially constructive criticism, are welcome as always. Bear in mind, though, that this is my first attempt at horror.

_"He did not speak of it to anyone, but the shadow of it never left his heart." – Amulet of __Samarkand_

Monsters

Nathaniel stayed curled up in a ball long after his master deposited him on his bed with a weary grunt. He listened to, and yet was not aware of, the heavy thud of boots on his wooden floor, and to the click of the door as it shut. Muffled footsteps sounded on the stairs, and the drone of a male and female voice, the latter anxious, somewhere below.

These sounds were lost on his ears. The raspy beating of parchment-like wings, the click of claws, and the terrifying screeching of the imps deafened him to any other, less paranormal noises.

They had touched him, just barely, with their twisted, black, hook-like nails. He had peered out between his fingers from his hunched position and watched as one of them carefully ran a pointed tip across his bare wrist – not enough to break the skin, but just enough to leave a faint red mark, which soon turned white, and then faded altogether.

Many more pulled at his clothes, tangled their filthy hands in his hair, and scrabbled at his face.

Suddenly he was off his bed and stumbling towards the sink in the bathroom next to his room. Small hands gripped the sides of the porcelain basin and he looked at his face.

Unscathed, except for four tiny marks just beneath his collar. They resembled bug bites: tiny, red bumps.

He tore at the buttons on his shirt. One of them ripped off and went clattering into a corner; he didn't notice. Ice-cold water was pouring out of the tap, and a damp, freezing rag slapped against the now bare skin of his neck.

He rubbed furiously, his skin suddenly prickling all over his body. The air was hot, stiflingly hot. The rag went to his face, ran through his hair.

Soon he had given up on the rag and instead the frigid water ran out of the shower spigot. Clothes that he swore to himself he would never touch again lay in a heap in the corner, with the torn button.

Icy water ran through his hair, plastering it to his forehead, the sides of his head, and the back of his neck. It ran down his shoulders, but his skin still itched. He ran his nails across his arms, chest, face – everything his could reach. Long, red marks marred his pale skin, and burned with every stinging drop of cold water that hit them. Still, the feeling persisted. Goosebumps rose on his arms and legs.

The black, filthy claws…they were everywhere, scraping, scratching at him. He shut his eyes and saw their unnatural shapes, their gaping mouths full of crooked, pointy teeth. Hurriedly he opened them again.

Scratching…claws…or were those his own nails? Somewhere on his upper arm, the skin had been torn. Red mixed with the freezing water and ran down his arm, splattered on the white floor of the shower, and was sucked into the drain.

Tainted by the claws, by the mere stare of those burning, hateful eyes, Nathaniel sank to his knees and curled up again. Sharp needles of water struck his back, and he shuddered. But not at the cold, at the nails that he still felt against his face and scalp.

He hated them, feared them. Monsters. Tears mixed with frigid water and the dots of blood on his cheekbones. The salty substance stung the puncture wounds.

Several minutes later, a pale, shaking hand turned a knob and the water stopped flowing. A red ring stained the outside of the drain, and Nathaniel stumbled out of the shower, groping for a towel.

He couldn't look at himself in the mirror, knowing what he would see. A scared, face and trembling lips, a long smear of crimson across pallid flesh. Huddled in the soft safety of the large, blue towel, Nathaniel breathed deeply, though he didn't dare close his eyes.

A soft rap on the door. Nathaniel stared at the wall, unmoving.

"Nathaniel?"

Mrs. Underwood. The corner of his mind still aware of his surroundings heard and recognized the voice. But it wasn't enough to drown out the rest of his mind, which only heard harsh cries and the snapping of moist teeth. More rapping, more insistent this time.

"Nathaniel? Are you all right, dear?"

Should he answer her? No. He was unclean, touched by demons. Even her voice was warmth, but he was freezing all over.

Their breath had been hot and damp and reminded him of the acrid stench of some of his master's supplies. Vomit climbed up his throat at the memory, but he choked it down.

"I've made you some tea and a sandwich," Mrs. Underwood's voice told him. "I'll leave the tray outside your door."

And she was gone. Once her steps were no longer audible, Nathaniel stood on wobbly legs and made his way to his bedroom. He ignored the food outside and to the side of the door – he could still taste the bitter bile in the back of his mouth and didn't want to think about eating.

He dressed in a clean shirt and pants and fell on his bed, his soaking hair making cold wet splotches appear on his blue and white striped pillowcase. It, too, had a rust-colored spot on it after he lifted his cheek away. He touched his face with the tips of his fingers and they came away speckled with red. The right sleeve of his shirt had a very thin, faint red stripe on it now. He stared at the spot for a long time, trying to remember what had caused it. Black, twisted, claws or filed, pinkish nails…. He looked down at his hands. On his left hand, the nails on his index and middle finger had the familiar red on the very tips. Oh.

He lay back and looked at the ceiling, removing a strand of damp hair from its position draped across one of his eye with a puff of air. An indeterminable amount of time later, there was a slight, somehow disappointed-sounding clatter as Mrs. Underwood took the untouched tray back downstairs.

Nathaniel didn't speak, but listened to the frightful sounds. Papery wings and red-rimmed eyes, throbbing veins and multiple rows of teeth haunted his dreams.

Downstairs, Arthur Underwood folded the page of the newspaper over and shook it sharply into place, and drained the last of his tea.


End file.
